


Voyager

by wilyasha



Series: Firewall [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Technology, Body Horror, Hallucinations, Identity Reveal, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mild Gore, Starvation, Team as Family, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12027981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilyasha/pseuds/wilyasha
Summary: Shiro never feared death, only the unknown. He hopes Voltron moves on, towards the future. He can endure.





	Voyager

**Author's Note:**

> This entire series really diverges from the canon timeline and ventures into AU territory. This interlude story in particular takes place after the main events of "Blackout" (02x13) and runs semi-parallel to the events of [Autonomy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11802795).
> 
> Content Warnings: Medical torture, experimentation, strange Galra torture devices, forced starvation, and visual and auditory hallucinations.

Shiro awakens to blinding lights streaming from a blazing canopy. His skin feels clammy, moist and chilly. He takes a deep breath and his chest feels hollow. Rolling over to his right, he falls from a bench. His prosthetic arm clanks against the metal floor. Shiro twists away, glad that the prosthetic took most of the rocky landing. He blinks, his eyes crusty and dry. With his left hand, he rubs at his chin, feeling a week’s worth of stubbly beard. Exhaustion makes his body numb and he realizes with weary indifference that he doesn’t fear death. 

“You’re him?” Says a gruff voice to his far right. “The black paladin. We’ve met before.”

Still on all fours, Shiro looks up and across the room. Rolo sits, his legs spread with his head in his limp hands. 

“I heard some prisoners call you the Champion,” Rolo continues, his face void of all expression.

The exhaustion makes Shiro flop uselessly on his front. He’s right back where he started.

\--

He doesn’t see Rolo again. Or any other prisoners for that matter. A varga later, a sentry comes to bind his wrists and implants a chip into his Galra arm, powering it down automatically. It makes his right shoulder numb as he leans to the side. He can’t walk straight. 

“I’m here to ship Prisoner XXY-EHST38 out,” the sentry says robotically to another.

“Transfer data?” asks the second sentry.

“It’s on Haggar’s orders. We’re sending him to Base Kuron-2,” says the first sentry.

“Does he have an escort?” 

“Yes,” says a smooth voice behind them. 

Shiro sees the swish of dark robes and feels the static air of a druid. It makes his stomach roil. 

“Druid Malax,” the second sentry acknowledges before nodding them in the direction of the hanger. “The ship is ready for transfer.”

\--

Shiro sleeps most of the way. He dreams of summer trips to Tokyo, the streets filled with tourists. He dreams of his childhood at the GG base in Arizona. He dreams of his father the year before Shiro went missing in action, his face worn and tired. He was so sick and reclusive. And like a phantom, he vanished. He withdrew, pulled away from his son, so he could face death alone. Shiro dreams of his family. Coran and his witty jokes and perfectly coiffed hair. Allura and her happy smiles, her eyes giddy with wonder. Pidge and her smudged glasses, oily fingerprints smeared at the edges so thick that she can barely see through them unless Shiro cleans them off for her. Hunk and his delicious baked goods and his stories of summers spent visiting his grandmother in Samoa. Lance and his endearing bravery, always eager to prove his worth and satiate his curiosity. Keith and his warm kisses, the sensation of his arms wrapping around Shiro’s body in a tight embrace. His chest aches. It’s the first time he’s dreamed of them. He wakes up to tears on his face. The druid watches him through it all. 

“I wonder,” the druid remarks. The air in the ship is stagnant. The stench of the magic user is like rotting fruit. “What makes you capable of piloting the Black Lion, Champion? Where is that strength now?”

“It’s not strength,” Shiro croaks. It’s the first time he’s heard his own voice and it sounds foreign to his ears. 

A slow grin crawls up the druid's face beneath the cowl. “Do enlighten me?” 

“You wouldn’t understand even if you tried,” Shiro says, leaning his head back. He wants to go back to sleep, but the ship is rocking. They’re entering the atmosphere. 

The druid’s face darkens in offense. He stands suddenly, nearly floating over to Shiro. With sharp nails, Malax grasps the white tuft of Shiro’s hair and slams his head against the wall. A blistering pain slices through his head. Throbbing and woozy, Shiro cries out in pain. The druid grips his hair, slamming his head into the wall again. Shiro feels the wet trickle of blood dripping down his temple and across his cheekbone. The druid slams his head a third time before taking his seat again. 

His face burns hot with embarrassment. The crown of his head throbs and aches. Tears well up against his lower lids and they run down his face, staining the already dry trails. 

Crying, Shiro feels the burning rage simmer just below the surface. He misses his family. But he knows he’ll see them again.

“When I get out of here,” Shiro grumbles, “I’ll kill you first.”

The druid laughs.

\--

A phoeb goes by and he prays, to whatever Creator is listening to him, that Voltron still moves on. Druid Malax is not only his escort. He is his overseer. For the first seven quintants, Malax has him spread-eagle on a vertical, metal gurney. His metal arm has been removed and his organic one is held to the gurney by a glowing purple ring. The same is done to his ankles. Malax starves him. Shiro doesn’t remember the last time he ate food. A quick meal before the battle? A sip of water before climbing into Black? 

His empty stomach clenches, twisting and begging for sustenance. On the eighth quintant, Malax arrives with a syringe. Shiro knows better than to think it’s a nutrient plasma. An icy trickle cascades down his arm when the druid pushes down on the plunger. A rush of electricity echoes through his chest when Malax pulls a thin rod from his robes and presses it to the injection site. Shiro jerks and thrashes against the vertical gurney. With enough self-awareness, he keeps from biting his own tongue. He still feels his joints freeze and his back bow and his muscles tear as he shakes through the tremors. When it’s over, he sags forward. The only thing keeping him up are the three glowing rings. 

Malax leaves. He doesn’t return until six quintants later. He doesn’t say anything to Shiro: only injects that subzero serum and presses the rod to the raw injection site. The pain is harsher this time. The electrical current races through his limbs and bruises his veins. His heart beats wildly beneath his chest. He bites his tongue this time, but has some remaining sense to release it before he bites it clean off. He sags forward even more. With heavy-lidded eyes, he watches as Malax pulls his magic into his hand. His long purple fingers thread dark wisps into a ball. He electrifies it as it attacks forward, as if the magic has a mind of its own. It pushes against Shiro’s chest, sinks deep into muscles and organs and bones. Shiro screams. 

“I thought you were getting out of here, Champion,” Malax says, finally. “I thought you were going to kill me. It’s only been a fort-quint and you’ve given up already.” 

Shiro’s laugh is hollow and ragged. He feels wrung dry, like a wet cloth that has turned rancid in the humid air. He supposes he smells rancid, too. He hasn’t had a shower since he was back at the Castle. 

“Seriously, Takashi… how can you give up this soon?” The voice is soft yet detached. “You think you should be laughing at a time like this.”

Shiro’s head jerks back. Keith stands in front of him, dressed in druid robes, a soft smile on his face. His words are harsh, but his face is as sweet as ever. 

“Keith?” he whimpers. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Keith asks, coyly. His head is cocked to the side as his dark purple eyes rove over Shiro’s frame. Those eyes that look like lost galaxies. Shiro grits his teeth. This isn’t Keith. “I think the situation you are in is fairly obvious. What I don’t understand is how you can stand there and lie to me… You said you weren’t leaving, but you end up leaving us. Leaving me _again_. You always had planned to leave me. Telling me to lead Voltron so you could disappear.”

Shiro doesn’t answer him, but he falls forward onto his knees and hands. This is a dream. A nightmare. It must be. He has his prosthetic back. 

“Get up, Takashi.” Keith orders, his voice empty. 

Shiro grinds his molars together. _It isn’t Keith. It isn’t Keith._

“Get up, Takashi,” Keith orders again. This time angrily. “Get up and look at me.”

Slowly, he stands. His legs are like thin rubber beneath him. 

“You aren’t Keith,” Shiro murmurs. 

“You’re right, I’m not,” says a new voice with glowing eyes. “I’m you.”

\--

“The asset is panicking,” Malax says to one of the on-duty medical sentries. “How are his vitals?”

“Normal, despite the agitation,” the robot says. “Would you like me to refine the brain illusionary video?” 

“Yes, please,” Malax answers. “It looks a bit grainy.”

The sentry nods, toggling one of the dials so that a holographic screens’ video becomes clearer. 

“Who is the subject speaking with, Lieutenant Drak? Keith? Who is he?” Malax asks. 

Lieutenant Drak is a svelte female with hair oiled and pressed back. She looks beautiful especially with the shiny puckered scar on her right cheek. She seems like someone who would like to see more action. Not someone suited to work at a science base. Perhaps he’ll ask her to dinner tonight. 

“The red paladin I believe, Druid Malax,” Drak says. “It only took a phoeb for the Champion to break. His psyche must be seeking out a familiar face to calm him. Although, it doesn’t seem to be doing much for him right now.”

“No,” Malax says. “I mean, who is the red paladin to the black paladin?”

“From the data we have gathered from select memories,” the sentry pipes up from its console, “they seem to be mates.”

Malax raises a thick eyebrow. “Interesting. I would like more information on the red paladin. Cycle through the asset’s memories for anything regarding this Keith.”

“Yes, Druid Malax,” the sentry salutes. 

“What should we do now? Proceed with the project?” Drak asks.

Malax shakes his head. “I want that data. Nothing is to proceed until we know how to manipulate the asset. We can use his mate against him if need be, but until we know more I will continue with the experimentation at my own pace.”

\--

He’s lost track of the days. Everything bleeds into one night. Time drags on forever and the brief resilience he had leaks away from him. Exhaustion weighs heavily on his bones. He doesn’t even care if death comes for him or ignores him entirely. He doesn’t care if he must suffer another nightmare with Keith’s angry words and druid attire. He just doesn’t want to see _himself_ ever again. Not like that. Not that druidic nightmare. The Shiro with the yellow eyes that shutter open with a cutthroat smirk spreading from ear to ear. Taunting and taunting as he scrambles back against the gurney, his own eyes shut tightly. 

Malax visits. He strips the familiar black bodysuit and gray tunic off Shiro’s body and shoves him into a decontamination chamber. A burning spray hits him from all angles, some of it getting into his eyes and he screeches. Malax pulls him out after a tick, dousing him with cold water. It sluices across his shoulders and down his back. Malax shoves him back into the decontamination chamber. Warm air rushes from the vents, drying him faster than any fluffy towel. The druid is tossing him fresh clothing, a clean bodysuit and a worn gray tunic, when a female Galra comes in. She has strange gray-purple skin and a deep scar in her face, as if a wound did not heal properly and she didn’t care to have it corrected. Her short hair is slicked back and a dark purple crest swoops back from her forehead and down her nape, disappearing beneath her Imperial armor. 

“Druid Malax?” she prods.

“Lieutenant Drak, what is it?”

“There is something you should see,” the lieutenant says. Shiro notices that although she tries to maintain appearances, she looks anxious. Shiro narrows his eyes. 

Malax does the same before nodding tightly. “Please restrain the prisoner, Lieutenant.” The druid leaves through the set of sliding doors. 

Lieutenant Drak does what is demanded, coiling glowing purple rings around his wrist and ankles and pushing him back against the gurney after he redresses. Like a magnet, he is pulled towards the metal. 

“What’s going on?” he asks. 

The lieutenant ignores him. Making sure he’s secure, she turns to leave.

“What’s going on?” he calls after her, but she keeps walking.

\--

_“I would like some privacy with the red paladin. Please?”_

_“I’m staying.”_

_“I’ll allow it.”_

Malax grimaces at the figures on the screen. He clutches the forward toggle, scrolling through the video.

_“I could not keep you where I had been before, where you were born.”_

He rewinds and plays the line again. He does it four more times, hearing the voice, seeing the face. He grits his teeth. This was not anticipated. He toggles forward again.

_“Who are you to Allura?”_

_“Buddy, what are you talking about?”_

_“I overheard Ulaz talking to Coran and Allura. She sounded like she was familiar with you. And how Ulaz spoke of you, it was like you both knew each other. King Alfor, King Alfor told you not to say anything to Allura? About what?”_

_“King Alfor is, was, my uncle.”_

_“Was he the one who ordered you to send the Blue Lion away?”_

_“Keith, stop. What the hell is going on? Did you even hear what she just said? Allura is her cousin?”_

_“I heard her.”_

_“If King Alfor is your uncle, that means you’re half Altean?”_

_“Is that why Keith looks human? Alteans can shapeshift.”_

Malax closes his eyes as he stops the video, gritting his teeth in frustration. This changes all the plans for Earth, for Project Kuron and its pending operation.

“Druid Malax?” Drak says from behind him. “What are your orders?” 

He sighs, long and drawn out, weary. He doesn’t want to push the schedule forward, but they will have to. 

“Contact my brother, Druid Solthro, on Base Kuron-1,” Malax says. “Tell him the heir apparent is alive. Tell him her son, Prince Kythel, is with her. Tell him he is a paladin of Voltron.”

\--

A sentry shoves his old prosthetic back into the locking mechanism of his mechanical socket. The chip still drains it of its power and his wrists are bound again. For the second time, he is pushed up a ramp and into a ship towards an unknown destination. The druid is not with him this time. A few sentries stand watch over him. He measures them. They’re all tall and watchful of his presence. He wonders what it would take to sneak up on one of them and strangle it, but they’re all facing him. 

“Where’s the druid?” he asks.

“Quiet, prisoner.” 

He manages to doze once before he’s awoken by the ramp opening again. The exterior is dimly lit and Shiro thinks they might be in another hanger but it turns out to be a massive hall underground. A tunnel with tracks leads somewhere deep within this base. For the second time during his captivity this time around, he feels fearful. The torture he has endured has made him unsteady. He can’t fight off whatever creatures lurk in this darkness. Shiro thrives fighting alongside allies. Matt. Keith. Lance. Pidge. Hunk. Allura. Coran. Ulaz. Kolivan. Antok. Larka. Thace. Teamwork. Family. People who have his back. That’s where he belongs, not here with people who believe only personal strength is what makes survival.

With a deep breath, he is led and prodded onto a tram. 

“The asset is here,” one of the sentries radios ahead. “Bring us in.”

The tram starts, a smoothing chug of quintessence hydraulics and then the tram is catapulting through the tunnel. Shiro doesn’t know how long they are there, how much time he has lost, but the tunnel finally opens up into another wide hall. He’s greeted by bright lights of yellow and purple. It’s packed. Galra druids, soldiers, and sentries walk about, coming and going, heading to what Shiro can only assume are laboratories or training decks or whatever the hell they do in this underground base. 

“Welcome, Takashi,” says an eerily familiar voice. A voice that he hasn’t heard in roughly two years. It’s a druid wearing the standard robe, however the cowl is pulled back to reveal light brown hair and glowing yellow eyes. The druid’s skin is a light, washed-out purple. He has Altean ears, pointed and stretched high against his head. Shiro’s stomach drops as he sees the familiar person: a long face, a square chin, a wide smile, and thick graying mousy eyebrows. “It’s been a long time, Takashi. We have a lot to talk about.”

Shiro can’t breathe. It feels like his world has shifted on its axis, the rug pulled out from underneath him. He falls to his knees, the ache dull and distant. He looks up from beneath his white bangs, the length too long and desperate to be trimmed. He sweeps them back, his forehead sticky with sweat. He looks up at the druid in front of him. So familiar, yet a stranger. 

“Commander Holt?”


End file.
